Taste of Regret
by Calliope's Quill
Summary: An Ian-centric oneshot. Angsty, character death. For there is no taste quite like regret. It's bitter, like tears, and is sort of tangy, with a dash of memories.


Regret

A Ian-centric oneshot. Kind of angsty, and character death. I continue to experiment with weird writing styles. Oh, and spoilers for Stormbreaker - though really, if you haven't read the first book or seen the movie, what are you doing here? Speaking of which, Alex Rider and co. do not belong to me, no matter how much I put it on my wishlist.

* * *

I don't want to face no hollowed-eyed ending

Just want to see...

Loved ones buried, empty days of waiting -

I just want to see what kills me.

-Cowboy Junkies

* * *

Regret. Verb, to feel sad or repentant over something that has already happened or been done (such as a loss or a missed opportunity).

Regret. The word left such a bitter taste in one's mouth.

**_Regret_** - Ian sure regretted taking that turn back there. [_Stupid, stupid_], the agent berated himself. He should have gone left, not right. Then maybe he wouldn't be accelerating as much as possible, with the outside world blurring slightly, narrowing down to the scream of Ian's tires and the glint off of the window of the pursuing car. Though really, it was mostly just adrenaline and not fear - why should Ian be afraid? He was an experienced top MI6 agent, who had been in hundreds of more desperate situations. There was no way he was letting something like this take him down [_not now not now - don't want to die_]. He had the information, needed to get it to headquarters. The lives of all the kids were at risk, all those schoolchildren and - Alex - oh god, Alex. He couldn't, wouldn't, can't let Alex die so Ian was going to get back and he was going to be fine and there had been something Alex had wanted to show Ian, right? He would see whatever it was and so Ian sped up from wanting to see his nephew and from the adrenaline [_and definitely not from that fear of when you know the predator is closing in for the kill_].

And then, suddenly, the gleam of that car was so much closer - when did that happen? And the man had a gun and - was that Yassen? Oh, he was so buggered - no, no he wasn't because Ian was going to go home and no spray of bullets would stop him, not even as his tires' scream became a screech as the car skid to the side and the glass shattered.

**_ to feel sad over--_**

Angry words spoken in the heat, a coffin draped in black nearby. A weeping mother, and his brother's eyes narrow in anger. Something fractured in each of them, and both joined the military [_glamour danger a chance to do good_]. Ian loved his brother, was amazingly close but sometimes it just irritated him because John was the perfect son, the perfect brother, the perfect soldier. Smart [_did you see Ian? I got into Oxford - Oxford! This is the best day ever_] and an athlete. Somehow he always retained that spark of light and innocence, despite his job [_even long after the light in Ian's eyes had faded and he could no longer meet his own gaze in the mirror_]. Nice, witty, handsome. So very loyal and [_your brother carried a wounded comrade to safety under fire, he's a hero - we're so proud_] yes Ian was proud, but John wasn't perfect. He couldn't be, because he died [_Breaking news: an airline accident, Flight 629 has gone up in flames on the runway_] and he never came back and he left Alex. This was one thing that Ian would beat him in, he wouldn't leave Alex [_no, no, can't die, not now_]. Or at the least, Ian wanted to say goodbye before he left. John and Helen had said goodbye, but it wasn't the final kind [_Helen's wide smile, a backwards glance and a wave_] and Ian missed them so much it hurt, like a perpetual ache in his side. Or was that just the bullet wound?

They went up in flames, those red furious flames [_and there's red now too, but it's thick and solid, and it's everywhere and reflected a million times of shards of glittering glass. And it's not like fire, because this red is not hot it's just so cold..._]

_** to be repentant--**_

Ian couldn't help but wonder if his eyes were becoming hollow and empty like those of too many corpses he had seen [_though it wouldn't be the same, of course, because they were dead, all dead and Ian was NOT dying_]. Empty eyes, everywhere, and then his mind always would wonder if dead people were supposed to look so accusing. He wasn't there for a fellow soldier or agent. Maybe he was too late to stop someone's plan. Maybe he personally killed them. No matter how, they all had that same look - though the ones he actually killed were the worst [_pulling that trigger, rush of blood and someone crumples and life is cheap_]. Bruce Markov, Ian remembered him. He was glad that Bruce couldn't give him that look [_you killed me, monster monster - you kill monsters so you should kill yourself too_] because there was nothing left to look at anyone with, let alone Ian. Maybe he shouldn't have done that, but the situation was urgent and required it - the situation was always urgent. And it was too late now, at any rate.

_** for a loss--**_

_John and Helen and Ash (who surely must be missing them as sorely as Ian) and his parents and his girlfriend. Every person he couldn't save, every person he killed, every bystander that got caught up in a cutthroat world. Every name in the news, on a list, every I'm sorry to tell you this._

**_ and_**

**_missed opportunities._**

Alex wasn't though. Alex and Jack, they were still here, they were not dead, blood pumped through their body [_and they never had to know Ian sometimes checked on them in the dead of night to make sure of that and that their eyes weren't glassy, and their skin not that horrible waxy cold shade_]. They were both so alive, veritable flames of life in fact. He loved them. It sounded so cheesy, but he did. He knew Alex knew it, despite Ian being aloof so much, and sometimes Jack would just give him this smile and sideways look from under her flame red hair that suggested she knew he loved her, despite his best efforts [_fire hair, like that consumed Mary and John and was even now consuming Ian, though inside it had been consuming him for years. Playing with fire was dangerous, but he loved it so, and it gave off heat, which was good because Ian was just so cold..._]

He did love Alex though, Alex with his perfect mix of Helen and John and his own unique charm. Alex with his wit and humor, intelligence and abilities. Alex with his wide smile [_Helen gave him a wide smile over her shoulder that day, and John waved as they boarded the plane, and Alex cried in Ian's arms_], his messy blonde hair and his brown doe-eyes that made it so hard to be stern [_but he had to be, because they were all dead and he wouldn't let Alex be dead too so Alex had to learn to survive_]. Alex took to the skills of a spy easily - a natural.

Ian just wanted [_JohnHelen_] Alex to survive. But maybe it was, as Ian remembered _[he remembered so much those few moments he thought his brain might burst, and it might burst because suddenly the fire stopped being cold and he was burningburning_] the way that Alan Blunt would give Ian that could smile, and then casually inquire about his talented young nephew. MI6 couldn't have Alex, he was Jack's and his. They couldn't take that boy and twist him and break him, and make the light fade from Alex's eyes. And Ian loved him so very much [_a small boy looked bewildered at the blood coming from his knee and wants to cry, and Ian steps forward but it is Jack who hugs him and kisses it better_] and maybe it wouldn't have hurt to show it some more. And Ian would go home and hug Alex and be brave and kiss Jack except for the fact that the glass were sharp red shards all around him and everything was so blurry, and maybe - just maybe, he kinda wished that he had let Alex call him Dad after all.

Regret. The word left such a bitter taste in one's mouth, but Ian could only taste the salty tang of blood as he died.


End file.
